Dora's Gate

By Skye Hunter

Among the stars, there is an ancient, advanced race called the Ja-dorean. Humanoid in form, the Ja-dorean evolutionary path has taken a tragic turn, and the race is slowly dying out. Its only hope lies in "blending" with another humanoid race, however primitive.

Darcene-el-dor, a Seer, of the Ja-dorean, has predicted that one of many humanoid races could be the chosen one; so twelve seedbase worlds are set up to determine the most successful blending from among the chosen races deemed closest to the Ja-dorean. Unknown to its inhabitants, Earth becomes one of the source worlds chosen to compete for the blending.

In Washington, D.C., a resourceful computer hacker, Scott Haskels, has found a connection between missing persons and a country inn in North Carolina called, Dora’s Gate. From this discovery, Scott is taken on a roller-coaster ride of events, out among the stars, which will determine the future of the Ja-doreans and the ultimate destiny of the human race.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781257934775

Book preview

+++++   D O R A’ S     G A T E   +++++

Author:  Skye Hunter

Copyright © 2012 by Skye Hunter

All Rights Reserved.  This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the copyright holder.

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ISBN:   978-1-257-93477-5

Forward

The Year:  847 Javaen Time

The Place:  World Eleo – Home of Her Majesty, Darcene-el-dor, the 

Ancient One and Seer of Times–to-Come.

Purpose:  To hear Darcene-el-dor’s decision for the Five-World Cluster concerning the future of their race:  the mighty and glorious Ja-dorean, which alone roams and rules the stars.

The crowd stood up and beheld Daeon the Supreme, Chief Ruler of the Cluster, as he passed by.  The other four melgans envied his position and poise, but none to the point of challenge.  Once in five-thousand years a leader such a Daeon came along, and all bowed to his superiority—his right to his place.  Beside, in these times, who wanted his place?  Upon his shoulders lay the responsibility of carrying out Darcene-el-dor’s words and making all five worlds like it.  It was quite an order; for the five planets of the Cluster rarely agreed upon anything; and now with the future of the race at hand, agreement was vital.

All the worlds were ceremoniously represented: Marqu, the Elegant of Eleo; Jarmene, the Diplomat of Ell;  Jusa (dubbed ‘the Witch’) from misty Orrao; Mickae-Much-Beloved of Yae; and, of course, Daeon, the Supreme of Javae.  Each had brought an entourage to support his or her public pose, and each waited, quietly and respectfully, for the Ancient One to appear above them.  A small balcony jutted out from her private quarters above the large courtyard, which hosted a crowd that had been increasing for the last few days.  No one knew for sure when she would appear, but they had all been summoned four Javaen days ago, so the time must be near.

As if Daeon’s presence had signaled the end of the crowd’s vigil, a sound crackled through the air above.  The Ancient One’s doors opened, and she walked out to the edge of her balcony with the vigor and springiness of a young girl.  Her silvery hair draped her shoulders, straight to the floor, and a light behind her silhouetted her slim form.

With no hesitation, her eyes pierced the crowd, as she, in a clear, untrembling voice said, Prepare your planets—it must be done.

CHAPTER 1

The red sun was something to see, but not just the sun.  The sky, as well, riveted one's gaze.  To those accustomed to the blue skies and white clouds of Earth, these Indian-orange clouds and yellow streaks never ceased to amaze.  Like an artist’s brush glides across a canvas to give his picture seasons, so did this sun’s light wash the world below in the glow of endless autumn.  It was captivating, yet frightening, for something so strange and different was not supposed to be beautiful; and yet it was…beautiful and glorious.  So the first arrivals had named their new world Glory, to show its effects upon the spirit and to give it their love and respect from the start.

Living on Glory was everything one could hope for.  The weather was mild, the scenery breathtaking with small bluffs rolling over the whole landscape, a few lakes, and many clear, flowing streams.  But there were no oceans, nor deserts, and only two seasons—warmtime and cooltime.

For the inhabitants who came through The Way, Glory was as satisfying as any place they had dreamed of on Earth; for these souls revered peace, beauty and ease of living.  The vast, fertile spaciousness welcomed them as the old frontiers of Earth had welcomed its earlier pioneers.

Of course, the psychology of the settlers had a great deal to do with Glory’s effect upon them.  All who came through The Way had chosen this world, just as it had chosen them, without their knowing.  Yet in mutual choosing, one is likely to value the chosen object from the start and do one’s best to be content with it; whereas, it's often difficult to accept something which is forced upon the psyche.

The tall Norwegian, called Johansson, thought about this fact often, especially when he checked out a new arrival.  But, so far, only two individuals had regretted their decision to come; and that was tragic for both, because there was no way back.  They'd been an elderly couple from Montana:  Mr. And Mrs. Yealley by name.  Johansson hadn't seen them for years, but he thought of them now.  From the beginning, Mrs. Yealley had been completely unable to adjust to life on Glory.  When all the emotional support from the colonists failed her, she deteriorated mentally.  Mr. Yealley had then taken her further into Glory’s interior, where they still lived quietly and alone, away from any pressures of society.

Johansson was one of the old-timers now—thirty-five years on Glory.  Yet, every day was a new start for him.  The gravity was ever-so-slightly less than Earth’s, but it had a good effect.  Movement was simpler.  Johansson loved the phenomenon called the float, where the breeze seemed to pick him up as he walked.  And running on Glory was so easy, even though more than one child had tumbled head over heels into a bara bush before he or she learned to run slower.  Adults learned to use the float as a type of sport, and even held contests at festivals on the duration of floats.  No one had cracked five seconds yet.

For Johansson there was only one drawback to Glory; and, oddly, this one thing didn't disturb anyone else.  But Johansson hated mysteries, and Glory had a mystery—the Tube.  No one could explain the Tube.

It began somewhere away from his range, on the other side of the rain forest.  For mapping purposes Glory was divided into sixty-four ranges, running pole to pole.  And while it had been affectionately named by the first arrivals for the subway system in England, it really was a tube—a long, huge metal tube, complete with traveling seats and rounded-bottoms cars, which moved travelers from one station to another.  The population centers had logically located at each station to assure easy access to each other; for, once in the Tube, the riders could not stop traveling until they reached the next station.  To Johansson's thought, whoever built it was a genius.  The metal Tube had no seams, screws, cracks or breakdowns.  The controls were two levers, start and stop.  The Tube simply wrapped around the world like a giant metal worm and ended within a few earth miles of it origin.

Exactly where the Tube encircled Glory geographically was hard to say; no one had been up high enough to view the world, and Glory was still largely unexplored.  But it circled the entire planet, nonetheless, and so everyone on Glory used it.  It represented the only mass transit system available.  Bicycles and small putter-cars had been built here, but no one roamed too far from their group’s station.  The Tube held all inhabitants of this world within a couple hundred-mile-wide band stretching out on either side of the Tube, going north and south.  Few settlers ventured into the vast loneliness of the rest of the world where nothing linked them to civilization.  Much of Glory was still unknown territory, except that, quite gradually, the band had widened, and people were moving farther away from the Tube.  Eventually, (it was believed) the inhabitants would go thousands of miles north and south until Glory was completely explored.

Johansson didn’t care.  He wanted the Tube explained.  Who had built it?  Why had they left?  No bones or fossils had been discovered; no hints to Glory’s past.  That alone made him nervous.  His wife said he just couldn’t be content without something to be suspicious about, but he didn’t care about that either.  A man ought to be suspicious of something he couldn’t explain, even if it was useful.  They had been told Glory was an empty planet, the new home of man, or at least those lucky enough to escape the radiation of an over-crowded, nuclear-condemned Earth, whose end was drawing nearer each day. Yet, somebody had been here before; and all Johansson wanted to know was, who?

CHAPTER 2

The graystone mansion appeared to leap out from the dense woods which lined the winding lane.  For the last five minutes, Scott Haskels had been traveling this narrow passage; and it seemed endless.  He felt a brief shudder attack his body at the sudden change in scenery: one minute he'd been encapsulated by the immense darkness of the foliage, and the next instant he was in the sunlight again, gazing at the palatial grounds of his destination.

Well, he said aloud, after letting out a slow whistle, so much for this being a mom and pop operation!

His gaze traveled the length of the grounds to the vast veranda surrounding the great stone monstrosity called, Dora’s Gate.  It was really quite unique, and very prosperous; but it didn’t exactly fit any architectural style.  It was like a rambling Tudor castle, all done in that rather ugly, gray stone.  Several workmen puttered around the manicured lawn and one was clipping—of all things—the maze.  It was unbelievable…and so hidden.  He wondered if any of the nearer neighbors even knew it was here, so secluded it was; and then he realized why this thought had struck him.  It was the lane!  The lane was not a paved drive or even a road; it was a dirt passage, narrow, seemingly untraveled and neglected, with branches scratching the car as he drove along.  He thought, perhaps, he had come in the back way, but no road went out any other way.  The land simply approached the grounds, circled a magnificent courtyard, and came back out the same way.  ‘Unbelievable,’ he thought.  Why was something so magnificent hidden in a tangled forest?

Scott, old boy, this sure doesn’t look like Honolulu! he mused.  He was still rather stunned by his decision to visit Dora’s Gate instead of winging his way to Hawaii, but even now he didn’t regret it.  The energy still coursed through his body, telling him he was on to something.   He hoped he was right; he hadn't felt this alive in years.

His mind traveled back over its meandering course for the last few weeks.  He could almost feel the warmth of his IPad—his beloved companion—as it shed its glow over the dingy office that was practically his home in D.C.

God!  What a dull life he had led, wasting year after year compiling data for every conceivable committee on Capitol Hill.  And where had his career brought him?  No where.  He was a relic…a dinosaur…a dying breed that would soon be extinct as soon as everyone got online.  Besides, he hadn’t been on a date in months—how was that for a thirty year old bachelor?  A couple weeks ago, he had almost decided to quit and get a life—when it had happened.

Just to break the boredom of a lonely Friday night, he had played around with a screen full of missing persons files, when he began to notice a theme: out of many thousands of persons reported missing in the U.S., nearly one-fifth of the cases included two names, either alone or together—Dora’s Gate and Raleigh, North Carolina.

He had run probability checks on the numbers and found them way too high for chance.  The files revealed Dora’s Gate to be an obscure country inn just twelve miles outside of Raleigh, but no individual investigation tied either location to the actual disappearance of anyone.  Raleigh or Dora’s Gate were simply places visited by the missing people during their last few months before disappearing.

He pondered for a time as to why no investigators had thought these places to be significant.  Then he realized that the cases were spread all across the country, and he was probably the first person to correlate the data in this particular fashion, finding these common denominators.

After days of further research, Scott felt a renewed respect for his chosen field.  If people like himself didn't use their expertise to reveal these more subtle relationships in the field of research, who would?  But that wasn’t the reason the blood was flowing in his veins with renewed vigor; his instincts and inability to sleep were telling him that there was something important going on here.  So, with a vacation coming, he was in a position to get out of his rat-hole existence and view life at first-hand again.

His car came to rest in the circle drive, and Scott once again felt the subtle mystery of the place.  The spacious stone veranda that appeared to surround this impressive Inn was empty—no one was in sight, nor did anyone rush to greet him as he walked up the wide steps and through the leaded-windowed entry.  The lobby was empty, with several tables and couches settled in what looked like permanent, ageless positions on the thick, heavily patterned carpet.  Indeed, the maroon carpet, with its broad, Henry the VIII designs, dominated the entire room.  Scott knew instinctively that only these white, stuccoed walls could have gone with the outrageous carpet, and he knew very little about decorating.  Still, the place had an air to it—a protective fortress of yesteryear, placing its inhabitants safe behind its palatial walls.

A soft sound behind him prompted Scott to set down his luggage and turn, meeting the huge, doe-like eyes of a plump matron.

Well, good morning! I’m Dora Wist, one of the owners, she said cheerfully.  Are you Mr. Haskels?

Scott nodded and mumbled, remembering that he had a part to play.  Yes ma’am.  Like I said on the phone, I’m really glad you let me come on such short notice.  I guess, I’m still in shock; my brother and I were very close.

If Dora Wist sensed his falseness, she gave no sign.  Her round, black eyes filled with true empathy as she said, I can well imagine!  To lose a brother is one thing; but to lose a twin, well, that’s a deeper matter.  These drunken maniacs are on the roads everywhere, and we take our lives into our hands every time we get behind the wheel.  I’m so sorry.  She patted Scott’s shoulder and moved toward the front desk, her plump body shaking slightly with each step.

Scott felt a twinge of conscious.  The twin story was the best he could come up with on such short notice. He wanted to be left alone at the Inn, free to walk about undisturbed; and someone in grief was often given that kind of space.  Still, Dora Wist was expressing genuine sympathy and was causing him to feel like a lying bastard.  He must complete his exciting little investigation soon and get the hell out of here.  She certainly gave off no sinister vibes.  In fact, she reminded him of his aunt Harriet, who was the sweetest person he knew.

After checking in, Scott went straight to his room on the second floor.  The huge windows faced directly out over the grounds behind the Inn, and Scott could see a corner of the maze off to his left.  The view was, well, different.  It was private, empty of anyone at the moment, with acres of green-carpeted turf ending, out away from the Inn, at the point where it met with the dense woods.  The maze was, of course, the really interesting thing in the scene, but there was a peaceful response to the view over all.  One could get used to this kind of life.  This place had a gentile quality about it.

Scott turned, remembering his mission and the speed with which he wished to conclude it.  He walked swiftly to the thick-carpeted stairway leading back to the lobby.  If there was an elevator at Dora’s Gate, he hadn't seen it; and the bellboy had valiantly carted his luggage up the stairs as though there had been no easier alternative.  But, that was another part of the quiet charm of this place—no elevators.  In fact, no noisy contraptions of any kind present.  Scott liked this oasis more with every passing moment.

What he planned to do was a mystery to himself, at the moment, but he headed for the enormous French doors leading out to the back side of the Inn.  He was about to step through them onto the cobblestone veranda, when a pitiful, almost tender sound came from the front entrance.

A girl, or rather a slender young woman of perhaps twenty-five, was struggling with a large suitcase in the middle of the lobby.  She had apparently dropped it and was having some difficulty in picking it up and carrying it further.  Scott took a step toward her but was immediately superseded by a wiry, muscular gentleman of about sixty.  Mr. Wist, no doubt.  The gentleman—for to Scott there was simply no other name for him—speedily lifted the suitcase out of the young woman’s grasp, took her arm and led her to one of the couches in the lobby.

Scott inched his way closer to get a better view of her and noticed how pale she was.  There was rather a good chance that she was here to convalesce, he realized; for she was slightly underweight for true health, and her arms were shaking from weakness.  He felt sorry for her, for anyone feeling and looking that frail; and he would have left it there if she hadn’t looked up into his eyes, with her own lovely eyes, which gripped and held him unlike anything he had ever experienced.  They were actually aqua-blue in color, he was quite sure, for he had never seen eyes that color in his life.  And they looked at him as if they recognized him from someplace long ago.

He didn’t know how long he stared back at her: he had never been hypnotized by anyone’s eyes before.  He just wanted to stare and stare, until he knew all about her and who she was.  She was taller than average, and her hair was a beige-blond with nothing outstanding except for its rather old-fashioned style.  It was far too long for current styles, hanging straight down the center of her back, with each side tied together across the back of her head.  No curl was apparent, but she didn’t need it.  Her regular features and irregular eyes were all she needed to be attractive.  Her weakness, or illness, only held his attention briefly.

Scott suddenly became aware of his own, rather seedy, appearance.  His dark hair was thinning slightly, and his skin hadn’t seen a tan for three years.  He was dressed sloppily, not expecting these grand accommodations, and he wondered if he had remembered to shave this morning.  Realizing how rough he looked, Scott walked over to the couch, ignored the presence of the elderly man, and spoke to the girl.

Are you feeling all right?  Could I help you with anything?  He felt a bit foolish, but he wanted to meet her.

No, thank you.  She murmured in an embarrassed voice.  I’ve had these little attacks before.  They don’t last long.  Thank you, anyway, both of you.  Scott’s attention was drawn again to Mr. Wist, or whoever he was.

As if sensing Scott’s hostility at his presence, the gentleman smiled pleasantly at the younger man.  Frank Wist of Dora’s Gate, here, he said ceremoniously.  And you must be Mr. Haskels.

Scott nodded and shook his hand, still not feeling too happy to know Mr. Wist.  He had none of the compassion of his wife.  This tall, slim man looked like an accomplished gentleman of the finest family of England, who operated a business only to amuse himself.  His type made Scott, born and bred in the practical Midwest, just plain nervous.

Mr. Wist quietly slipped away, leaving the two newcomers to get to know each other.  It was obviously what Scott wanted, so the proprietor saw his duty and did it.  This was not lost upon Scott, and he decided to make an effort to like the man.  Both he and his establishment were certainly unique enough to be appreciated.

After a few more words with the frail woman, whose name turned out to be Linsey Shelton and who promised to meet him after breakfast the next morning for a stroll through the maze, Scott took his leave and walked through those French doors, at last.  The sun was setting, and even though the day still had some life in it, Scott wasn’t so sure he did.  His reason for being outdoors left him almost instantly.  He stood for some moments on the veranda, strands of hair blowing across his vision, and decided to save any walking for Linsey Shelton and the maze tomorrow.  He went back to his room, read for an hour, and fell asleep.

*         *         *

Three days later found Scott and Linsey a hot item at Dora’s gate.  It was incredible to Scott that in three short days he had learned so much about another person.  Several significant things about Linsey emerged from their conversations: she was tired of her life in the fast lane in Boston: she had a rare blood disorder, not necessarily fatal, but she never allowed it to interfere with her fashion design and marketing work; she was not married but had been engaged once—she’s been the one to call it off.  What also emerged was that, for some blessed reason, she had been drawn to Scott instantly.

All of these things interested him, but there was something even more demanding of his attention. Scott realized that she was hiding something.

It was this latter part that intrigued him, of course, having come this far; so his attention to details concerning her had increased.  He watched her out of the corner of his eye to catch any hint, any symbol, of her discomfort.  Besides himself, she seemed to know only the Wists; but it was in this area that he was the most confused.  For, while she seemed cool and distant to Mrs. Wist who was the warm one, Linsey combed the crowd each night at dinner for Mr. Wist, displaying great relief when she spotted him, as if her very life depended upon it.  This made no sense to Scott.  As far as he could tell, Linsey had not conversed with Mr. Wist again after that first night.  Nor did Scott think for a minute that there was any romantic interest for the older man.  No, it was something else, part of the thing she was hiding.

From time to time, Scott reminded himself of his mission to discover the tie-in of Dora’s Gate to the missing-persons files.  But absolutely no evidence had come forth to suggest a sinister connection to anyone’s disappearance.  He was coming up empty-handed on every suspicious theory he’d had.  No one, he told himself, could just vanish from this place—who would want to?  He was considering spending the rest of his life here.  In his entire experience, he had never felt so pampered, protected, and plumped.  He knew it had to end, but he decided not to face that yet.  This whole vacation was like a terrific dream.

Only one, tiny remnant of suspicion resurfaced in Scott’s mind from time to time, and that had to do with the warm and gracious Dora Wist with the doe-eyes.  In fact, her eyes were much to the point, for she watched everybody—constantly.  It wasn’t that she stared; it was that she was always peering quickly at her guests, silently and with an odd smile on her face, flitting from this one to that, ever watching in the manner of a doting mother—as if the customers were more to her than guests.

There were perhaps forty people in the dining room each evening, and a few others who never showed up for the dinner hour.  The Wists had mentioned that this was the slowest month they'd had in some time, and Scott thought that might be of significance; perhaps she had more time to address the comfort of each one.  Scott wasn’t sure why Mrs. Wist now made him nervous.  He only knew that she watched everyone the way he watched Linsey…and he watched Linsey because he was deeply and emotionally interested in her.

Sunday evening, after their romp through the maze, Scott and Linsey ran back to the veranda and ordered an exotic coconut concoction from the once-a-night waiter.  Every evening between eight and nine the waiter appeared outside, allowing the guests who usually adorned the veranda at this quiet time, a final drink or bedtime snack.  It was a custom.  No one missed it.

This evening, Scott and Linsey gulped theirs down with the vigor of youth, which was not entirely theirs any longer, and were just standing to leave, when Mr. Wist appeared at the French doors.  Scott saw him first and Linsey second, but it didn’t matter.  It was upon Linsey that the greatest effect fell.  The blood drained from her face, and Scott thought she was having another attack of some kind.  Then he knew, a moment later, that this was not the case.  He knew because he caught the soft nod she gave to Mr. Wist before she put on a fake smile and proceeded back into the Inn.

Scott followed her inside and noticed that Mr. Wist had disappeared.  He waited for Linsey to talk, for he knew she was in control of things.  She would now tell him what was going to happen for the rest of the evening, he thought…most likely she would use the excuse of tiredness.

I can’t believe how tired I am from that little run in the maze, Scott.  Do you care if we cut this short tonight and meet in the morning for breakfast?  She sounded weak and frail again.

Okay, he tried to appear unsuspecting.  I’m beat too.  What time tomorrow?

You name it!  She didn’t even falter.

Six-thirty.

Great!  She started to walk toward the stairs without him, and then she turned as if forgetting something important, came back, kissed him and moved away again.  Her lips were cold, and her aqua eyes weren’t so blue or deep now…they were scared.

She turned and ran up the stairs that circled the lobby in a wide arc, and he saw her disappear quicker than he thought possible.  She wasn’t coming back—he knew it.  He didn’t know how he knew it, but he was certain.  She was never coming back.

He stood in the same spot for a long time and then decided something.  If she was going to go, he was going to see it.  If she snuck out in the middle of the night, he would be there.  If she left in the next five minutes, he would watch her.  Whatever was driving her away, whatever was causing her to leave him and this Inn, he wanted to see it happen.  He gave no thought to his mission concerning the mysterious disappearances he was investigating.  He didn't care about those people anymore.  He cared only about Linsey and her disappearance from his life.

It took less time for him to get to this room, than it took Linsey to get up the stairs.  He gathered a few items, a small notebook, a pen, a book, just to pass the time.  Then he walked to the end of the hall, turned the corner slightly to enter the small alcove that housed the ice machine—the only modern contraption the building had—and sat down on the floor in such a way that no one would see him unless they came for ice.  With one, short move, he could look around the wall and straight down the hall to her door.  If he listened carefully, he would hear any movement in the hall.  If someone came for ice, he would tell them he'd hurt his leg and was sitting awhile until the pain passed.  He didn’t care how ridiculous he looked or sounded.  This was Linsey…his Linsey!

For twenty-eight minutes, he sat waiting.  When she came down the hall from her room, she passed the stairs and for one, panicky moment, Scott thought she was coming for ice.  But she stopped and knocked on a door just steps away from Scott’s head.  The door opened, and she went in.

Scott leaped up, went to the door and pressed his ear to it to detect any sound.  He heard voices but not words.  And then it came: a humming, low at first, then more pronounced, vibrating even the hallway.  Without thought, Scott tore the door open and saw the shock on the faces of Mr. Wist and Linsey.  Just as Linsey was stepping into a brightly lit closet, of yellow and pink light, Scott leaped forward and grabbed her wrist, not knowing why or what he intended to do.  The vibration passed through his entire body.  At that moment, Mr. Wist must have hit him on the back of the head, for the pain was more than he could bear.  Then he didn’t know anything at all.

CHAPTER 3

He was drifting along in the canoe, legs spread over the side dragging his feet in the cool water. The motion was pleasant, but his feet were uncomfortable and wet, his shoes soaked.  He struggled to open his eyes, but the sun was too bright and would not permit it.  His arms were heavy, and he had no energy…yet he strained to open his eyes to help stop the endless rolling of the boat.  Something was scraping against his arm, scratching it like a dry twig, and then something else was stroking, or caressing, his other arm.  Still, he couldn’t open his eyes; and he couldn’t tell who was with him in the tiny canoe.  Perhaps he was in danger.  His heart began to beat fiercely,